His Cinderella Heiress (12 page)

‘And there's no great holes where I sank. There's a whole ribbon of this, land that quakes beautifully but doesn't give. Trust me, Jo. Jump.'

Trust him. A man who wore leggings and intricate neckties and looked so sexy a girl could swoon. The Lord of Glenconaill Castle.

A man in work trousers and rolled-up sleeves.

A man who smiled at her.

She stared back at him, and then looked at the grassy verge. It looked beautiful.

The sun was shining on her face. The sound of a thousand frogs was a gentle choir across the bog.

Trust me.

She took a tentative step forward and put her weight on the grass.

The ground under her sagged and she leaped back. ‘I don't think...'

‘You're not sinking into mud. This is a much thicker thatch of grass than where you got stuck. I've tried it out. Look.' And he jumped.

The ground sagged and rose again. Jo was standing two or three feet away from him. The grasses quivered all the way across to her and she rode a mini wave.

She squealed in surprise, then stared down in astonishment. ‘Really?'

He jumped again, grinning. ‘I found it just for you. Try it.'

She jumped, just a little.

‘Higher.'

‘It'll...'

‘It won't do anything. I told you before; I've tried it. I was here yesterday, scouting a good bit of bog to show you.'

‘You did that...for me?'

‘I can't have you going back to Australia thinking all Irish bogs are out to eat Australians.' He reached out and caught her hands. ‘Bounce.'

‘I...'

‘Trust me. Bounce.'

Trust him. She looked up at him and he was smiling, and he was holding her hands and the warmth of him...the strength of him...

He wouldn't let her down. How did she know it? She just knew it.

‘Bounce,' he said again, encouragingly, and she met his gaze and his smile said
Smile back
and somehow she felt herself relax.

She bounced and the lovely squishy grasses bounced with her and, to her amazement, she felt Finn do a smaller bounce as the quaking ground moved under him as well.

‘It's like a water bed,' she breathed.

‘I've never tried a water bed,' Finn admitted. ‘I always thought they'd be weird.'

‘But fun.'

‘You've slept in one?'

‘One of my foster mums had one. She had three foster kids and we all bounced. She was out one day and we bounced too much and she came home to floods. She wasn't best pleased.'

‘I'd imagine,' Finn said, chuckling, and jumping himself so Jo bounced with him. ‘Gruel and stale bread for a week?'

‘Mops at twenty paces.' She bounced again, starting to enjoy herself. ‘Foster parents are awesome.'

‘Until you have to leave.'

‘Let's not go there.' She bounced again, really high. The ground sagged but bounced back, so she and Finn were rocking with each other. The sun was on their faces. A couple of dozy sheep were staring over the stone wall with vague astonishment. A bird—a kestrel?—was cruising high in the thermals above them, maybe frog-hunting?

‘I hope we're not squashing frogs,' she worried out loud and he grinned.

‘Any self-respecting frog will be long gone. That was some squeal.'

‘I don't squeal.'

‘You did.'

‘I might have,' she conceded, jumping again just because she could, just because it felt good, just because this man was holding her hands and for now it felt right. She felt right. She felt...as if this was her place. As if she had every right in the world to be here. As if this was her home? ‘I had...provocation,' she managed. She was trying to haul her thoughts back to whether or not she'd squealed, but her thoughts were heading off on a tangent all of their own.

A tangent that was all about how this man was holding her and how good it felt and how wonderful that when she jumped he jumped, and when he jumped she jumped. And suddenly it had nothing to do with the bog they were jumping on but everything to do with how wonderful it was. With how wonderful
he
was.

‘I should warn you, you're seeing the bog at its best,' Finn told her. ‘Tomorrow it'll be raining. In fact this afternoon it may be raining. Or in half an hour. This is Ireland, after all.'

‘I like Ireland.'

‘You've seen approximately nought point one per cent of Ireland.'

‘Then I like nought point one per cent. I like this part.'

‘Me, too,' he said and jumped again and suddenly they were grinning at each other like idiots and jumping in sync and the world felt amazing. The world felt right.

‘You want to explore a bit further?' he asked and her hands were in his and suddenly she thought no matter where he wanted to take her she'd follow. Which was a stupid thought. She didn't do trust. She didn't...love?

There was a blinding thought, a thought so out of left field that she tugged her hands back and stared at him in confusion. She'd known this guy for just over a week. You couldn't make decisions like that in a week.

Could you?

‘What's wrong?' he asked gently and she stared at him and somehow the confusion settled.

He wasn't asking her to love him. He was asking her to explore the landscape.

With him.

‘You know I won't let you sink,' he told her and she looked up at him and made a decision. A decision based on his smile. A decision based on the gentleness of his voice.

A decision not based one little bit on how good-looking he was, or how big, or how the sun glinted on his dark hair or how the strength of him seemed like an aura. He was a farmer born and bred. He was a farmer who was now the Lord of Glenconaill. Who could transform at will...

No. The decision wasn't based on that at all. It was simply that she wanted to see more of this amazing country before she left.

‘Yes, please,' she said and then, because it was only sensible and Jo Conaill prided herself on being sensible, she slipped her hands back into his. After all, he was her guarantee...not to sink.

‘Yes, please,' she said again. ‘Show me all.'

* * *

He wished he knew more about this country.

If you drove quickly across bog country you could easily take it for a barren waste. But if you walked it, as he and Jo were walking it, taking care to stick to ground he knew was solid but venturing far from the roads, where the ground rose and fell, where the streams trickled above and below ground, where so many different plants eked out a fragile life in this tough terrain...if you did that then you realised the land had a beauty all its own. He knew the artist in Jo was seeing it as it should be seen.

And she was asking questions. She'd tighten her hold on his hand and then stoop, forcing him to stoop with her. ‘What's this?' she'd ask, fingering some tiny, delicate flower, and he didn't know what it was and he could have kicked himself for not knowing.

He knew what grew on his farm. He didn't know this place.

But it was fascinating and Jo's enjoyment made it more so.

‘I need to sketch,' she whispered, gazing around her with awe. ‘I never knew...'

But she was going home, he thought, and more and more the thought was like grey fog.

They'd had their week at the castle. They'd had their fairy tale. After tomorrow they'd go back to their own lives. The castle would be nothing more than an eye-watering amount in their bank accounts.

And, as if on cue, the sun went under a cloud. He glanced up and saw the beginnings of storm clouds. You didn't expect anything else in this country. The land was so wet that as soon as it was warm, condensation formed clouds and rain followed.

It was kind of comforting. A man knew where he was with this weather—and if he had to feel grey then why not let it rain?

‘We need to get back,' he told her. ‘It'll be raining within the hour.'

‘Really?'

‘Really.'

She paused and gazed around her, as if drinking in the last view of this amazing landscape. Her hand was still in his.

Her hand felt okay. It felt good.

The feeling of grey intensified. Tomorrow it'd be over. He'd be back on his farm, looking towards the future.

He'd be rich enough to expand his farm to something enormous. He could do whatever he liked.

Why didn't that feel good?

‘Okay,' Jo said and sighed. ‘Time to go.'

And it was.

CHAPTER SEVEN

E
XCEPT
THERE
WAS
the cow.

They reached the home field behind the castle just as the first fat raindrops started to fall. Jo's hand was still in his—why let it go? Finn helped her climb the last stile and then paused.

He'd brought the two stray cows into the paddock nearest the stables so he could give them extra feed and watch the younger cow who he thought was close to calving. She was very young, he'd decided as he'd brought her to the top field, barely more than a calf herself. The cow she was with was probably her mother.

And now she was definitely calving, heaving with futile effort. The older cow was standing back, watching, backing off a little and then edging nearer, as if not knowing what was happening but frightened regardless.

She had reason to be frightened, Finn acknowledged as he got a clear look at what was going on. The ground around the little cow was flattened, as if she'd been down for a while. Her eyes were wild and rolling back.

Damn
.

‘Calving?' Jo asked and Finn nodded grimly. He approached with caution, not wanting to scare her more than she already was, but the little cow was too far gone to be scared of anything but what was happening to her body.

‘Lord Conaill?'

Mrs O'Reilly was standing on the castle side of the field's stone wall underneath a vast umbrella. ‘Thank heaven you've come. She's been down for two hours and nothing's happening. I didn't know where you were so I telephoned the veterinary. He's away. The lad who answers his calls says there's nothing he can do. If it's a stray cow, the kindest thing would be to shoot her, he said, so I took the liberty of unlocking your grandfather's gun cabinet. Which one would you be wanting to use?'

She was holding up guns. Three guns!

This was a stray cow, with no known lineage. It was a straggly, half starved animal and its mother looked little better. She'd fetch little at market, maybe a small amount for pet food.

He glanced back at Jo. Her face was expressionless.

‘I've used the shotgun on the sheep when I had to,' Mrs O'Reilly said, sounding doubtful. ‘But it made a dreadful mess. Would you be knowing more about them?'

Finn had been stooping over the cow. Now he straightened and stared at her. ‘You shot...'

‘Two sheep,' she told him. ‘One got some sort of infection—horrid it was, and the old lord wouldn't let me get the veterinary—and then there was an old girl who just lay down and wouldn't get up. After two days I felt so sorry for her.'

‘You've had no help at all?'

‘He was very stubborn, the old lord. When my husband died he said it was no use spending money on the estate when it was just to be owned by...' She hesitated.

‘By what?' Finn asked, still gentle.

‘
Tuathánach
,' she muttered. ‘I'm sorry but that's how he saw you. Which gun?'

‘No gun,' Finn said grimly. ‘We may be
tuathánach
but sometimes that's a good thing. Put the guns away, Mrs O'Reilly, and remind us to increase what we're giving you. You've been a hero but,
tuathánach
or not, we're in charge now. Jo, get yourself inside out of the rain. Mrs O'Reilly, could you fetch me a bucket of hot soapy water, anything I might be able to use for lubricant and a couple of old sheets and scissors? I'll see what I can do.'

‘I'm staying,' Jo said and he shrugged.

‘As you like, but it won't be pretty.'

‘Then isn't it good that pretty's not my style.'

* * *

‘So what's
tuathánach
?'

Mrs O'Reilly had disappeared, off to replace gun with soap and water. Finn was gently moving his hands over the little cow's flank, speaking softly—in Gaelic? Did cows understand Gaelic? Jo wondered. Or maybe it was cow talk. This man was so big and so gentle...

Did she have a cow whisperer on her hands?

She didn't go near. When she'd gone near any of the livestock on the place they'd backed with alarm, but Finn seemed to be able to move among them with ease. When he'd approached the little cow she'd heaved and tried to rise but the effort had been too much. She'd slumped again but the moment he'd touched her, the moment the soft Gaelic words began, she seemed to have lost fear.

Maybe I would too, Jo thought, and then thought maybe she had. She thought back to Finn walking towards her over the bog, to Finn speaking in his soft Irish brogue, to Finn smiling at her, and she remembered how the terror of her situation had disappeared. She'd still been cold and humiliated and stuck but the moment he'd opened his mouth she'd stopped being afraid.

He was just plain lovely, she decided, wiping rain from her face. She was so wet now she was almost past noticing, or maybe it was that she was only noticing Finn. He was kind and he was funny and he was wise and he was strong—and it didn't hurt that he was so darned good-looking as well.

Did the little cow think he was good-looking?

‘
Tuathánach
means peasant,' Finn told her. He'd taken a while to answer her question but she was forced to forgive him. You could forgive a lot of a dripping-wet man with his arm up a cow. ‘That's what I am.'

‘You're Lord of Glenconaill.'

‘Who's just ruined a perfectly good shirt. Is that a lordly thing to do?'

‘It's definitely a lordly thing to do,' she declared. ‘Can I help?'

‘If you must stay then you could rip sheets,' he told her. ‘Do you faint at the sight of blood?'

‘Excuse me?'

He grinned. ‘Sorry. I forgot you're
tuathánach
, too. We peasants come from strong stock. But Jo, this'll get messy, I can't guarantee a happy ending and you must be wet and cold. You might want to go inside and wait.'

‘Like a lady. Huh? What's the Irish for bastard?'

‘Jo...'

‘Tell me.'

‘
Bastaird
,' he said reluctantly.

‘Well, there you go,' she said, and hauled herself up on the stone fence, close enough to watch but not so close as to worry the little cow and the older cow still hovering close. ‘A
tuathánach bastaird
. That's not the class who gets to block out the nasties of the world. You do what you have to do. I'm the support team. I might not be much help but I'm cheering from the sidelines.'

She hesitated and then looked at the little cow and the terror that was unmistakable in the creature's eyes. ‘Do you really think you can help her?'

‘If not, I do know how to use a gun,' Finn told her. ‘I won't push past my limitations but I'll do my best.'

* * *

Jo sat on her fence in the rain and cut sheets into strips, as instructed, on the diagonal to give them more strength. ‘I could use ropes but sheets will be cleaner and I don't have time to forage in the stables looking for the right type of rope,' Finn told her. So she sat and cut her sheets with care, as if it was very important that she get each line exactly straight. Mrs O'Reilly had brought an armload of linen. She tested each sheet and decided on the coarsest for strength and then worried that it might be too coarse.

She could go inside and do it but she didn't want to. This was a small job but she was focusing fiercely because it was the only thing she could do and she was desperate to help. She was hardly noticing that it was raining.

‘Tell me what's happening,' she asked quietly, and she wouldn't have asked at all but Finn was speaking slow and steady to the little cow, as if to reassure her that he was no stranger but a man who knew his job, who was here to help her.

And it was surely working, Jo decided. The more she listened to his soft, reassuring brogue, the more she decided the calf would slip out to listen.

But of course the calf didn't.

‘It's a big calf,' Finn told her, still softly, as if still talking to the little cow, though changing from Gaelic to English. Did cows understand Gaelic better?

Gaelic sounded...sexier.

‘I'm thinking she's been got at by a bull that's not her breed.' Finn was lying flat in the mud. She couldn't see what he was doing from the angle where she sat but she could see enough to know it was hard. She could see the cow tense with contractions and she could tell by the way Finn's voice changed that the contractions were squeezing his arm.

‘I'm suspecting the older cow's someone's house cow,' he said. ‘She'll have got out with her nearly grown calf and wandered the roads. Somehow the younger one's been got at by a bull. I'm betting they'll belong to a hobby farmer, someone who spends weekends down here, doesn't care for the land. Doesn't search for missing stock. These two would have starved if Mrs O'Reilly hadn't agreed to take them. And now we get to pick up the pieces.'

‘You love it,' she said slowly, hearing the anger in his voice.

‘What, this?'

‘No, farming.'

‘I do.' He gave a grunt of pain. ‘This calf has a big head and the legs are tucked back. I'm trying to haul the hooves forward between contractions but there's so little room.'

‘Could I help?'

‘You!'

‘ I have small hands. Plus you don't ride bikes like I do without gaining shoulder muscles. Try me.'

‘Jo, you don't want...'

‘Try me.'

* * *

So then it was Jo, lying in the mud, following Finn's directions.

‘You need to wait until the contraction backs off to try and bring the hooves forward. But you're doing two things,' he told her. ‘While the contraction hits, you need to hold the head back. Feel before the contraction hits, work out how you can cup the skull and push back. As soon as the contraction eases then try and hook the hooves forward. It's tight, and you only have until the next contraction. My hands just won't do it.'

‘I'll try.'

‘Of course you will,' he said. ‘
A
mhuirnín
. I'm starting to think you can do anything.'

And what was there in that to make her feel warm despite any amount of mud? And determined to do this.

She concentrated. She held the head and rode out a contraction and then manoeuvred her fingers until she felt what she was sure was a leg. Or almost sure. She got a grip and tugged, and the leg slid forward. The hoof was suddenly in front of the little nose.

‘I did it,' she breathed but then the next concentration hit and she went back to holding the head because she could still only feel one hoof in front. And the contraction hurt!

But Finn was holding her shoulders and it was okay.

It was okay as long as Finn was holding her.

‘You're amazing,' Finn told her and because he said it she decided she was. ‘You can do it,' he said and she took a deep breath and tackled the other side. And when the hoof slid up and she had two hooves facing forward she felt as if she were flying.

‘I think we're ready,' she said unsteadily.

‘Both hooves forward?'

‘Yes.'

Finn lubricated his arm and she backed off. He checked, and his face broke into a grin that made her heart twist and the pain in her bruised arm fade to nothing.

‘Now it's time for your sheets,' he said and she had to forget about his smile and hand him her strips of sheets and watch as he fashioned ties around the little hooves. Then she watched and waited as he pulled back at every contraction.

She watched as finally the little calf slipped out into the world, as Finn's face broke into the widest grin she'd ever seen.

She had to wait as he cleared the calf's nose and mouth. As he checked her and found her flawless. As he lifted her and carried her round so her exhausted mother could see her, smell her and then tentatively start the first lick of cleaning, of caring, of starting to be...family.

And then she had to hold her breath as Finn turned back to her. For a moment she thought he was getting on with the job of cleaning up.

Instead of which, he drew her gently to him.

And he kissed her.

‘Jo Conaill, you are awesome.'

‘So are you, Finn Conaill.'

‘Yes, we are,' he said and kissed her again. ‘You want a shower? It's stopped raining.'

So it had. She hadn't noticed.

Did she want a shower? She drew back and looked down at herself and laughed.

‘Maybe.'

‘Together?'

And that took her breath away.

She did, she thought. Of course she did. She could let herself sink into this man, into his body, into his smile, into his life.

She wanted to.

But at her feet the little cow mooed softly and struggled to shift so she could lick her calf more effectively and somehow a sliver of sense was gleaned from the pair of them.

Actions had consequences.

She was a loner for a reason.

‘I think...separate showers,' she managed, and he hesitated and then nodded.

‘That's probably wise.'

It was, but she was having a whole lot of trouble staying wise.

* * *

They had a very late lunch, interrupted by constant visits to the window to check how mother and baby were doing. The sun had come out again and they were looking fine.

Even Mrs O'Reilly detoured past the window every time she brought anything to and from the dining room, and she seemed to find a lot of excuses to come to and from the dining room.

‘Eh, you've done well, the pair of you,' she said as she served them coffee. She beamed at them as if she was their grandma and all their useful attributes were due to inheritance from her side of the family. Then she whisked herself off and closed the door behind her.

‘We did,' Jo said, suddenly just a little self-conscious. Actually, she always was self-conscious in this room. Mrs O'Reilly loved serving them here. She wouldn't hear of them eating in the kitchen but it was so ostentatious. If she had to stay here longer she'd insist on eating somewhere else, she thought.
Tuathánachs
should eat in the kitchen.